“Different strokes for different folks.” -Muhammad Ali

My friends ran a river I really wanted to do. It’s class III/III+, with lots of technical moves required, and it has a pretty straightforward 20 foot-ish waterfall – perfect for challenging my current skill level, without being too intimidating. It’s also beautiful. The gang had a great time – I know because they posted about it on Facebook for days. Big smile photos – check! Congrats on PFDs all the way around – check! Waterfall-running videos – check! My friends ran an awesome river – without me.

I reacted as any rational, self-respecting adult would: I got butt-hurt.

My thought process went something like this: WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY didn’t anybody tell me about this? How could they take thirty people and not include me? I have more experience than 3/4 of that crowd! Don’t they know I could’ve helped? Don’t they know I’m fun? That I’m really, really FUN?? I guess not! I guess it’s time to get all new paddling buddies because I clearly have no friends! Maybe I’ll just paddle alone and freakin’ die on class II. Not that anybody would care. I don’t even care. Because I’m DONE.

I’ve been on the other side of this situation, too, more than once. You have a great day on a new river. You’ve got the happy exhaustion that comes from pushing yourself and holding your own. You check your phone while devouring 9,000 calories of post-paddle celebration, and you read, “What’s the deal with no invite? I mean, I get it if you wanted a small group and not too many newbs, but you took HIM? He’s been paddling for like, five minutes! I’ve been busting my butt, and you know that one was on my list! What gives?”

Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?

My first year or so of whitewater paddling was easy: I was just glad to be there. Wherever. I had a set of mentors and a set of friends at around the same skill level. I loved everybody. I didn’t know anything, so I didn’t have much ego to bruise. Getting an invite to paddle was always a pleasant surprise, since there were no expectations. Every river was my favorite.

Then I started developing some skills and building a little confidence, and things started shifting. People I paddled with all the time stopped showing up. An influx of new people started, and they did not follow the progression that I had. Some of them ran rivers for which I had prepared for a year within their first couple of months. And while I was cheering their accomplishments, I have to admit that in the back of my mind, I wondered if I must be some kind of loser.

I’ve talked to many of my paddling friends about this compulsive need to measure our own success by what other people are doing. From what I’ve heard and seen, it’s rampant. Human nature seems to want to make darn sure we can’t just focus on our own path. Instead, we second-guess our decisions, past and present, and – even better – we second-guess other people’s decisions. Sometimes, we snark about it. Sometimes, we’re happier when people fail than when they succeed.

I’m a baby-steps girl, and that’s the way I’ve approached my paddling. The tortoise, that’s me. And you hares out there mess with my image of how things should be. Like my friend Kim – hare! At the end of last summer, I had to coax him into paddling across the lake with me, promising to be there with a t-rescue if he flipped. Now he’s comfortable on Cheoah and just did his PFD of the Green.

My natural response to someone I really like charging that hard was to worry and scold and assume that he had lost his ever-lovin’ mind. Besides, if what he’s doing is okay, that must mean my way is wrong! Right?

Actually, Kim is just being Kim. He’s a research scientist who is accustomed to achieving at a high level, and he handled paddling with the same methodical approach as his work. He identified boaters who are running what he wants to run, asked a lot of questions and made a list of the skills he needed to learn, then knocked them off, one by one. He weighed the risks and decided which ones he was willing to take. He’s handled his early success with humility and a great willingness to learn. (Kim is also a huge nerd who, fortunately, excels at both taking and giving grief – must-have abilities for whitewater paddling.)

There are other people out there who are less mindful and are likely pushing the envelope above their skill levels. It can be scary to watch, and when something bad happens to one of them, it affects all of us. And … I still don’t get to say that they have to do things the way I think is right. Good or bad, they get to make their own decisions.

I have no solutions to propose for paddling-induced insecurities and issues. But, since I’m sometimes guilty of them, I am working on a better way of thinking. Case in point: the answer to the “why him and not me” question in the story above is usually one (or a combo) of the following: 1) He showed up at breakfast all excited, so we took him. 2) I’m the newb who got invited. It’s not my group, and I thought it was bad form to bring more people for the leaders to have to watch out for. 3) I tagged 897 people who wanted to go, and I didn’t notice I accidentally left you off.

In other words, it wasn’t about you. I’m pretty sure that when Kim was running the Green, he wasn’t gloating about making me feel inadequate. And, not being a damned hare, I don’t give a flying – squirrel – about him or the Green when I’m attempting to brave a new move on the Ocoee. There are all kinds of reasons another paddler might do something that doesn’t sit right with us, including, but not limited to, getting into a relationship, getting out of a relationship, dealing with family drama, conquering demons, meeting goals, chasing ghosts, chasing dreams. Having fun, maybe. It is, in fact, all about them.

I do have one strong suggestion for those who find themselves in the uncomfortable position of comparing paddle lengths with their buddies. Turn up the sound, click the link below, and rock your groove.

By the way, my friend and CFO teammate Sarah recently posted that she surfed Hell’s Hole for the first time. I, myself, have not. And I’m happy to report that my first thought was, “Hell, yeah!”